Diplomatic Immunity

by Grant Sutherland

  Pascal reaches into his briefcase. “He canceled an appointment with me. It was the day he left.” Consulting his calendar, he finds the canceled appointment and gives me the date. The same day the airline ticket stub gives for Toshio’s departure for Switzerland. And Mike has confirmed with the airline that the trip took place, that the ticket was used.

  “You’re sure he went to San Diego?”

  “He said so.”

  “Not Geneva?”

  Pascal eyes me curiously. He clearly has not the slightest idea what I am talking about. Then Dixon returns with the unneeded file.

  Another question occurs to me. “If you had everything three weeks ago, all this evidence, why did you and Toshio bother to come back here last Friday?”

  Pascal frowns. “We did not.”

  I go to the visitors’ ledger and flip back the pages to last Friday. Toshio’s name and signature both appear in the middle of the page. There is no entry for Pascal Nyeri.

  “Toshio came here?” says Pascal, turned in his chair now to face me.

  I nod.

  He knits his brow. “Why?” he says.

  I turn to Dixon. “Would you be able to tell us what our colleague Mr. Hatanaka was looking at last Friday?”

  Dixon comes over and directs my attention to the next page in the ledger. There are entries for files requested by each visitor listed on the previous page.

  “These files are from the vaults here.” He points to a dozen or so numbers. Then his finger moves on. “And these are from across the street.”

  Pascal joins us at the ledger, and the three of us stand contemplating the list of files Toshio requested Friday. Too many. More than twenty. I ask Pascal if he recognizes any particular file that Toshio might have needed to review.

  “No. He never told me. He never said there was any more he wanted to see down here.” He is puzzled, maybe even a little put out by Toshio’s independent foray into the paperwork.

  Whatever it is that has been going on here, endless hours spent wading through papers will not help us. Not me anyway. What I really need to do now is get back to the office, hand the departmental reins to Gunther Franks, then go and see Mike. Maybe he can figure out who has been lying to whom, and why. Alone, I really have no chance.

  When I turn back to Pascal, his eyes remain fixed on the ledger. Our visit to the bank, our excursion into the paperwork, has not worked out as he might have hoped. He has not been able to extricate himself from the whole affair, to distance himself from the swelling whirlpool of trouble.

  “He should have called me,” he says like a man unjustly condemned.

  I decide it can wait till we’re back at Turtle Bay before I break the news to him that I want him to go through Toshio’s office drawer by drawer, file by file; that I am relying on him absolutely for some brilliant insight into what the hell has been going on. For now I just instruct him to make a note of everything Toshio requested Friday. Then I lay a hand on his shoulder.

  “Some connection might occur to you later,” I say.

  15

  THE UNITED NATIONS SECURITY COUNCIL IS IN PERMANENT session; this is an obligation decreed by the Charter. The permanent five plus the ten nations elected for two-year terms by the General Assembly must each have a representative present at UNHQ at all times, ready to attend the Council Chamber. So when Patrick sticks his head in at my door and says “Look sharp. Lady Nicola’s called the Council in,” what he means is that these fifteen are about to converge on the chamber. “She wants you down there,” he adds, withdrawing his head.

  “Why?”

  Patrick’s face reappears. “Well, I doubt she needs your advice on a nuclear strike.” He slaps the door frame. “Come on. Something’s going on with this Hatanaka business.”

  Grabbing my jacket, I shoot some final instructions to Gunther Franks, who sits at my desk, taking notes. Then I hurry after Patrick down the hall.

  Mike has asked me not to mention the morning drama at my apartment to Patrick. In fact, he wanted me to steer clear of Patrick till he’d had a chance to check with his own boss, Eckhardt, about any operation UN Extra Security might have in hand that Mike is unaware of. So I have spent my first quarter hour at work sequestered in my office with Gunther, bringing him up to speed on my appointments and the problems he will have to handle while I am off playing prosecuting attorney in the investigation of Toshio’s murder. Mostly management hassles, dealing with the heads of the various Legal Affairs departments, and ensuring that their regular battles for turf don’t flare into open warfare in my absence. Gunther has worked in nearly all the departments at one time or another. He knows the sensitivities and personalities involved; he should cope.

  Patrick gives an impatient flick of his hand when I tell him that Gunther Franks will be filling in for me. “Whatever. Just make sure he’s not on my back every ten bloody minutes, wanting instructions. Keep an eye on him.”

  I bite my tongue. I withhold the cheap sarcasm about all the free time I’ve got for purposeless supervision.

  “So what do we know?” Patrick asks me. “What’s new?”

  “We’ve got another face from the security tapes, someone Toshio was talking to at the NGO reception. Suzi Yomoto.”

  The name means nothing to Patrick.

  “Japanese,” I tell him. “Mike’s getting me a blowup from the tapes. She’ll be at some protest uptown later.”

  “You’re thinking about that note you found at Hatanaka’s apartment.”

  When I incline my head, Patrick nods. I might have something here. I do not tell him that I have not yet discounted the possibility that the note is Asahaki’s. Instead, I mention my visit to the Portland Trust Bank, the fact that Toshio does not appear to have been completely open with Oversight.

  “Toshio lied to Pascal about that trip he took to Geneva last week. As far as Pascal knew, Toshio was out in California.”

  “Hatanaka didn’t have to report his movements to every prick in the building.” Patrick shrugs it off. “It was a UNDCP committee he was investigating. So maybe he went to Switzerland to check it out with their people there. Who knows? He didn’t have to tell the world.”

  I remind Patrick of something I am sure he already knows: The UN Drug Control Program is headquartered in Vienna. Vienna, Austria, not Switzerland. He shrugs again.

  “Nothing else?” he says, referring to my investigation in general.

  Nothing, I tell him. But I’m thinking of the bugs, my intruder, and Mike’s injunction to silence.

  Our journey down through the Secretariat building and across to the Council Chamber is punctuated with bursts of instructions from Patrick on what I am and am not authorized to disclose to the Security Council. After five minutes we are approaching the chamber doors and he has still not addressed the big question.

  “What have we heard on Ambassador Asahaki?” I ask at last.

  “Unless you’re asked directly, don’t mention him.”

  “And if I am?”

  “Asahaki’s gone back to get instructions from the Jap Foreign Ministry. The truth,” he says.

  I look at him. That is not the truth. And I very much doubt that the Security Council will buy it.

  “What do you want, Sam, a script? They’ll ask some questions about what’s happening generally. They won’t get into specifics unless you lead them.”

  “And you don’t want me to do that.”

  “That’s the message.”

  Down on the floor of the main chamber a few Secretariat stenographers and clerks are setting up at the horseshoe table where the fifteen Security Council ambassadors and their seconds will sit. There are more chairs behind for advisers. Rows of seats rise and fan out from the table like theater seating. Behind the table a giant mural is fixed to the wall: a darkly abstract representation of the phoenix rising from the ashes of war.

  There is a scattering of early-arriving delegates in the Public Gallery; two Africans laugh and call to each other across the empty s
eats as we go by. The General Assembly and the main committees won’t be commencing their work for at least an hour; these guys must have heard word of trouble afoot and come along for the show. There will not, of course, be much to see. In the public arena of the main chamber it is not the real workings of international relations that are on view, merely the PR facade. A parallel universe where nations are not motivated by self-interest, where jealousy and wounded pride do not figure. In this PR projection of our world, sweet reasonableness is the defining tone. Statements are read calmly, for the record. Contrary views are presented. The president of the Council calls for a vote, and the vote is made. You would never know that during the preceding hours, in the smoke-filled side chamber, these same ambassadors were conniving, lying, hurling abuse, and getting lowdown and dirty in the never-ending battle not to emerge the dejected screwee.

  “Side chamber,” Patrick mutters, and I feel my heartbeat flutter as we descend the stairs through the main chamber.

  The Security Council side chamber. In the course of my UN career I have not once been summoned to the place. I have been consulted by Patrick on points of international law, advised him on advice he has subsequently given to the SG down there during various crises. I have even assisted with the preparation of draft resolutions and suggested wordings for compromise statements, but no one has ever thought it necessary to request my presence in the holy of holies.

  Reaching the floor of the main chamber now, I notice two senior members of the Japanese delegation sitting in the “interested parties” section. This area is set aside for nations and NGOs directly concerned with the issue currently under consideration by the Council. The two Japanese whisper to each other when they see us pass.

  “Did you see them?” I ask Patrick as we leave the main chamber.

  “I saw.”

  “Asahaki’s two and three man.”

  Patrick’s mouth is tight. The presence of those two indicates that there will definitely be questions raised in the side chamber about Asahaki.

  “Play it straight,” he advises. “If it gets rough, I’ll step in. Save your ass.”

  I shoot a glance at him. He will save my ass, the guy who has put me directly in the firing line. Striding on, he nods to the guard at the side-chamber door. The guard leans inside and announces us, and the next moment I am standing at Patrick’s side, facing Lady Nicola down the length of a long, narrow table. The room is windowless and surprisingly small. Paneled with mahogany veneer, no pictures on the wall. Here we are, I think distinctly. Here I am.

  “Samuel Windrush,” says Lady Nicola, opening a hand in my direction by way of introducing me to her colleagues, “is running the investigation into Special Envoy Hatanaka’s death.”

  I take a second with the faces down either side of the table. The French ambassador, Froissart. The Russian, Gradavitch. Chou En, the Chinese ambassador, and Bruckner from the U.S. Just the Big Five. Each ambassador has brought along one sidekick: Ambassador Bruckner, his chief legal counsel, Jennifer Dale. My heart is pumping hard now. Jennifer meets my glance briefly, then leans back and doodles on her pad. Beside me, Patrick promptly claims the single spare chair and I am left standing, for all the world like a man about to be judged. Lady Nicola smiles pleasantly.

  “Mr. O’Conner has explained to you that the Secretary-General wishes all of us here fully informed?”

  “Within the remit of the Charter,” Patrick cuts in. An unsubtle warning to me. Don’t let them railroad you.

  Lady Nicola doesn’t miss a beat. “Perhaps if you would outline the position for us, Samuel. Tell us where you are.”

  Right to it. No messing around. So I do as she asks; within the constraints laid down by Patrick, I summarize the events of yesterday as well as I can. A lightly edited version, from the discovery of Toshio’s body till now. The one truly awkward moment comes when Jennifer wonders aloud why the U.S. authorities weren’t informed before Mike and I visited Toshio’s apartment. On U.S. territory, she reminds me pointedly. Confessing to my misjudgment, the press of time, I move right on to conclude my summary. Though my performance really does not seem too bad to me, by the time I’m done, Lady Nicola has long since ceased to smile. Like the rest of them, she is visibly unimpressed with my report. An uncomfortable silence ensues. When I look down the two rows of faces, Jennifer is doodling in her pad again. Her boss, Ambassador Bruckner, finally speaks.

  “Ambassador Asahaki left last night. Do you have any idea why?”

  Great, I think. Question number one. I glance at Patrick, but he is staring into space.

  “We were told he was recalled by the Japanese Foreign Ministry,” I say. “For discussions.”

  “On what?”

  “We weren’t told.”

  “I understand you wanted to speak to him.”

  Where did Bruckner get that? I wonder. The Japanese delegation? “I would have liked to. Sure.”

  “Why?”

  I turn to Patrick and let my glance linger. Lady Nicola takes the hint.

  “Mr. O’Conner?”

  “There was some question about misappropriated UN funds,” he admits. “It turns out Hatanaka was looking in to it with Oversight.” It turns out. This is vintage Patrick O’Conner. Depending on how this thing breaks, he will claim as much or as little foreknowledge as he pleases. If it turns into an even worse disaster than Patrick clearly fears, Pascal Nyeri will be left to carry the can.

  “And what would that have to do with Ambassador Asahaki?” Lady Nicola asks.

  “It turns out,” says Patrick, “Ambassador Asahaki was one of those Hatanaka was investigating.”

  James Bruckner drops his head into his hands. “For chrissake,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear.

  The other ambassadors confer with their assistants, no one bothering to whisper.

  “Hatanaka was investigating Ambassador Asahaki, so Asahaki bumped him off?” Bruckner asks now in disbelief. He looks down the table at Patrick. And Patrick, the son of a bitch, gestures to me.

  “We have to consider all the possibilities,” I venture finally.

  “All the what?” Bruckner’s voice is suddenly full of scorn; he is furious at what he is hearing. Something the Japanese have withheld from him. Two days from the most important General Assembly vote in decades, his own political reputation riding on a Yes vote, and I have inadvertently driven the chief campaigner for the Yes vote into exile. For no good reason that James Bruckner can see.

  When Froissart attempts a question, Bruckner speaks right over him. “Show them the statement,” he tells Jennifer, tossing his pen on the table, pushing back in his chair. “All the goddamn possibilities,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his forehead.

  Jennifer hands Patrick and me copies of the statement. It is from the Japanese Foreign Ministry, two brief paragraphs. The first paragraph protests Ambassador Asahaki’s treatment at the hands of the Secretariat; my name, incredibly, is mentioned as Asahaki’s chief persecutor. But the second paragraph is worse, a bald declaration of Japan’s intention to revive their dormant territorial claim over the Spratly Islands, an uninhabited archipelago in the South China Sea. A claim no one has heard since the Second World War.

  I reread the statement, shaking my head.

  “I take it you’re familiar with the Spratlys,” Bruckner remarks acidly.

  I look up at him, then return my eyes to the statement. Every freshman in every international law faculty in the world is familiar with the Spratly Islands; the archipelago is a standard case study of territorial disputes. It has been under claim by China, Taiwan, Malaysia, Vietnam, and others for decades, everyone hoping for an offshore oil bonanza in some indeterminate future. The dispute gets airtime at the occasional UN-sponsored conference, but in recent years it has slipped off the main agenda, just one more unsolvable problem in a world that has thousands of more immediately pressing concerns. The threat here from the Japanese, though not directly stated, is clear: Either we ease up on Asahaki or they will t
hrow a match into the international tinderbox that is the Spratly Islands.

  “Something there you don’t understand?” says Bruckner.

  “They’re blaming me?” I look up again. “For what?”

  Lemtov, the Russian number-two man, the guy who sat on the UNDCP Special Committee with Asahaki and Wang Po Lin, speaks up. “The Japanese have not been pleased with your treatment of Ambassador Asahaki.”

  “We never even had the chance to question him,” I protest. “I hardly spoke to the man.”

  “You refused to give him Hatanaka’s body,” Bruckner says.

  Confirmation, if I still needed it, that he is getting his information directly from the Japanese delegation.

  “We couldn’t surrender the body. The request was out of line. And they haven’t dragged up this claim on the Spratlys just because of that.”

  “What evidence do you have that Ambassador Asahaki was in any way involved in Hatanaka’s death?” Lady Nicola asks me.

  “Look, no one’s accusing him of that,” I tell her somewhat ingenuously. “Internal Oversight has found some accounting anomalies involving Ambassador Asahaki. Toshio was assisting Oversight, helping them look in to that. If Ambassador Asahaki wants to come back here and answer some questions, no one’s going to be happier than me.”

  Froissart, the French ambassador, points an unlit cigarette in my direction. “If you do not insist on questioning Ambassador Asahaki, the Japanese will not press this claim on the Spratlys. You understand that?”

  An unnecessary crossing of t’s and dotting of i’s. In some embarrassment, Lady Nicola drops her gaze to her notes.

  Yes, I tell Froissart. I understand.

  “But you continue to insist?”

  “Yes.”

  He looks at me as if I am an imbecile. And then the condescending asshole actually begins to lecture me. The Spratlys, of course, are not really the issue here, and Froissart does not pretend that they are. It is Thursday’s vote that is causing the ulcers, and Froissart hammers the well-rehearsed arguments hard, as if he believes an aggressive assertion of the perm five’s position will somehow persuade me to relent, persuade me to give Ambassador Asahaki a clean bill of health so that Asahaki can return to Turtle Bay and do the necessary final lobbying for the Japanese seat. Froissart elaborates grandly, but the essence of the Yes case is simple: Japan must be given a place in the international political arena commensurate with its economic stature. “You must see,” Froissart says several times in the course of the oration, as if he is addressing an idiot. “You see it?”